bad a purpose. Some of our most valuable medicines are poisons; but
mixed with other drugs, and properly administered, they cure many
painful diseases. Many poisonous herbs are also used in dying different
colours. There is another poison tree, which grows in this country; it
is found in damp, marshy places, and resembles the ash. It never grows
very large. The wood of this tree is poisonous, if you either touch or
smell it, but it is not fatal; the effects of the poison go off in a day
or two. If a piece of the wood is put into the fire, the smell of it
will poison some persons, and cause them to swell and itch all over,
whilst others are not in the least affected by it, and can even taste
the wood without being hurt by it. It is as cold as ice to the feel, so
that if you take up a piece with a handful of other sticks, you would
discover it immediately. Little children should be very careful never to
pick or eat the berries of any tree. I have often heard of little boys
being very ill, and even dying, from having eaten the berries of trees
growing in the hedges, mistaking them for fruit."
[Illustration]
DISOBEDIENCE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
"I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me,"
said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named
Wilson Green. "Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two
ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the
bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other
things to play with. Won't you ask your father to let you come?"
"Oh, yes! And I'll come right away after dinner," said Wilson, full of
delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.
When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr.
Barlow's, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not
wish him to go there.
This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his
reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no
use. But he was so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think
about disobedience.
"He'll never know it," he said to himself, as he saw his father leave
the house. "He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be
back long before that time."
Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do
a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and
in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow's
for a short time.
Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as
actually to go over to Mr. Barlow's very soon after his father had gone
away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had
anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred's little
sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all
thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little
Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a
moment.
As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child,
she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna
had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours'
children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.
Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so
much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings.
He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that
disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might
die.
When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him
in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.
"Wilson, come here, my son;" he said, in a serious voice.
And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.
"When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see
Alfred Barlow," the father began, "I neglected to say, as a reason for
denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little
Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of
scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and
it was for this reason that I denied your request."
Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his
fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart
failed him. Not that he dreaded his father's displeasure so much as the
distress his act of disobedience would give him.
For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after
he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and
folly. It is said, "of wickedness," for deliberate acts of disobedience
to parents are wicked. He was likewise troubled, lest he, too, should
be attacked with scarlet fever, and die--and all because he had not
obeyed his father.
On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna
Barlow's disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad
one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he
had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.
It was several days afterwards, when the boy's fears had nearly all
subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore
throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day
afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that
he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the
physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet
fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.
From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little
more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was
just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of
those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant
requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical
attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of
saving his life.
About a week after the crisis of the disease had passed, when Wilson
could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he
said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:
"I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I
have been so sick."
"How so, my child?" asked Mr. Green, in surprise.
"You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred
Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I
disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick--so sick that Alfred
could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna's bed, she
told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had
any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not
to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it
from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did."
"Severely, indeed, my dear boy!" Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came
to his eye. "But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining
you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents,
is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years,
you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to
just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to GOD.
And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any
selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing
certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much
better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun--and
much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced
in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You
have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I
am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence."
"Indeed, father, I can never forget it," Wilson replied, with much
feeling. "No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as
body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I
have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should
never again have been happy."
"Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a
wrong act," the father said.
[Illustration]
THE GAME OF WEATHERCOCKS.
The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the
room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the
four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words
east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of
the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the
game, takes the part of EOLUS. All the other players arrange themselves
in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman
on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence,
Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter
which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the god of
the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite
direction.
It is a party of WEATHERCOCKS, and consequently each one must turn his
back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus cries
_south_, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points.
When he says _tempest_, everybody must whirl round three times, and come
back to the same place. At the word _variable_, they must balance them,
first on one foot, then on the other, until the god of the winds names
one of the four points. If he says _variable west_, then they vacillate
towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game
are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have
got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all
round to another.
When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite
to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.
It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the
variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits
to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of
sport.
JAMES CARTIER.
AN EARLY TRAVELLER IN AMERICA.
James, or as he is commonly called, Jacques Cartier, was the first who
explored the shores of Canada to any extent, and the first to discover
the existence of that great river, communicating between the Atlantic
Ocean and the great North American lakes, the St. Lawrence. The Indians
called the river Hochelega, and told him that they had never heard of
any one who had reached its source.
Cartier sailed up the river, and anchored his vessels near the island of
Orleans, below the place where Quebec now stands. It was in the summer
of 1535, when he sailed up the river, and he found Orleans island nearly
covered with loaded grape-vines, from which circumstance, as well as
from the beauty, variety, and luxuriance of its vegetation, he named it
the Island of Bacchus.
All the early navigators to this continent were in search of a
north-west passage to India, by which they thought they might reach the
East Indian islands by a shorter voyage than that in use. They were
formerly obliged to sail along the coast of Africa, and around the Cape
of Good Hope, when they had still another, the Indian Ocean, to cross
before they reached China. This was a very long and a very dangerous
voyage, and they wished for a shorter one; and the learned men of those
days were of opinion that there existed a passage somewhere in North
America, which joined the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together.
When Henry Hudson discovered the bay which bears his name, he thought
that he had found the desired object, and Cartier indulged the same
hopes, when sailing up the noble river Hochelega, which he called the
St. Lawrence, because he had discovered it on the day of the festival in
honour of the saint of that name, the 10th day of August. On the 15th,
he discovered the island now known by the name of Anticosti. At Bacchus
island he was visited by the principal chief of the neighbouring tribes,
whose name was Donnacona. The chief and his attendants were very
hospitable to the navigators, and in a solemn assembly he welcomed them,
in the name of five hundred of his warriors, to the shores of the
Hochelega. Donnacona had his residence and chief town at Stadacona,
which occupied part of the place where Quebec now stands.
Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the
great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although
he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his
curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there
was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he
intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and
resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them
was very curious. The savages were themselves superstitious, and
imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in
black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great
horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a
situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide.
Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the
woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by
one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon
as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried
off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately
came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation,
explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their god had sent
these three emissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow,
in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.
Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the
river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he
commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of
the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could
procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were
much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of
the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing,
six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary's, which were
becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a
thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of
joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple
presents.
The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a
number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village
of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal.
Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a
Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St.
Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course
of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to
France, where he soon after died.
ANSELMO'S ESCAPE;
OR, THE DOG SAINT BERNARD.
[Illustration]
In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named
Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young,
he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St.
Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he
had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which
are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre
was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to
be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the
monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he
trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home
several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre's own son,
Anselmo.
The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it
was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said,
and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but
Anselmo did not think of this;--now he stopped to make snow-balls, and
roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself;
then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded
from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way;
now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that
perhaps had passed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow
him to come within sight of it. And so the time passed on, and when he
ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach
the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for
Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he
stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his
home.
The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he
grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears.
Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him,
and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended God. The longer
little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he
seemed to fall asleep--a sleep from which he would never more awake, had
not God, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience,
watched over him in the hour of danger.
Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look
for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light
of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on
the hills, with snow on every side.
Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night.
And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy
lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in
the drifting snow, he would never find it again.
"Here, St. Bernard," said she to the dog, "go and find Anselmo; go and
seek for my child, my brave dog!" and she burst into tears, and threw
her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he
sprang from her hold, and darting through the door, was out of sight in
a moment.
The poor woman smiled. "It will be a comfort to him," she said, "to see
his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the
rest of the way." Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy
was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.
An hour had passed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet
returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down
the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it
was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard
was at his side. "Thank God! thank God!" she said; and she ran down the
hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and
no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I'll carry the boy myself. But as
she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her,
and she covered her face with her hands.
"He is not dead, Mary," shouted Pierre; "he is better already; see, he
looks up to you," and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by
his side.
Anselmo was laid in a warm bed--they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon
he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father
and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.
After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and
thanked God for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the
first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.
Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he
said: "Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I
had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost
my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down,
meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything
after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did
fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for
he found me."
"No," said Pierre, "I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the
foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home,
when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard
St. Bernard's bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the
hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step
through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he
carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I
saw it was Anselmo, my own son!"
"Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard," cried the boy, "who
carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite
sure it was there I sat down."
Whether this lesson cured the little boy of _loitering_ on his way, I
cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St.
Bernard became more than ever a favourite,--more than ever loved and
valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his
wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.
[Illustration]
TO MY BOY TOM,
ON GIVING HIM HIS FIRST SPELLING-BOOK.
Poor Tom, they're heathen Greek to you--
Those curiously-formed letters;
But you must learn them all, my boy,
And break the dunce's fetters.
Ay, there they stand, from A to Z,
Like prophets sent on mission,
To point the way in Wisdom's path
With accurate precision.
Or rather, they are like old nurse,
Aiding the first gradation,
The Alpha-_Bet_ and leading-strings
To better education.
And having totter'd, step by step,
Till stronger grown in knowledge,
Why, then, my boy, you'll run alone
Through this, your infant's college.
Ay, puzzle on--that's A, this B;
Ne'er mind a few erratics:
The big round O, and upright I,
Will lead to mathematics.
Your little book is just like life
In its progressive stages;
You'll find the spelling harder grow,
As you turn o'er the pages.
Two letters--three--and then comes four
Then syllables united,
Till six or seven in columns stand,
To render you affrighted.
But, having conn'd your lesson o'er,
With true pronunciation,
The task's performed, and you will gain
A parent's approbation.
Just so in life our troubles rise,
Getting from rough to rougher,
For man is like the grammar verbs,
_To be, or do, or suffer_.
[Illustration]
SECOND STORY OF THE SEA.
The tea-table was cleared away, the shutters were closed, a bright wood
fire blazed on the hearth, and Captain Albert, with his family, were
seated round it.
"Now, father," said Edward, "tell us another story of the sea, if you
please. How did you get your ship out of the ice?"
"It was brought out without much exertion of mine," said his father. "If
you had been there, my son, you would have felt that all the power of
man could have done little to relieve us. The ice gathered around us
thicker and closer, the wind died away, and it was a dead, freezing
calm. The ship did not move an inch, and the thoughts of my mind
troubled me by continually bringing up an account I had read in my
youth, of a vessel which had been caught in the ice near the south pole
and all the crew frozen, where they stood on duty--
"To the cordage glued the sailor,
And the steersman to the helm!
"I began to feel as if we had little prospect of escaping a similar
fate, and looked about to see what part of the ship could be spared for
fuel, in case of necessity. I also examined the provisions and water,
and calculated how long they would last. My faithful crew were sensible
of the danger we were in, but uttered no complaint. The whales appeared
to understand our helpless condition, and came around us, as if in
mockery, dashing about the ice with their powerful flooks, and exulting
as it were, in showing us how much more they could do for themselves
than we could. One of them even ventured to rub his monstrous sides
against our ship.
"In this melancholy situation, Robert (spoken of in our first story) was
a valuable addition to our ship's company. He was a young man of bright
natural talents, and possessed a good share of wit and power of
imitation. Besides which, he had received an education much superior to
that of sailors generally. He was a fine singer, and had a great share
of good songs, so that he became the life of the whole ship. We had very
little to do, and the men were very fond of sitting down on the
berth-deck, among the hammocks, with a lantern in the centre, to hear
Robert give an account of himself, and relate the wonderful adventures
he had met with.